Post by TheUdjat on Jun 2, 2009 19:15:39 GMT -5
Basic Traits
Name: April Harper
Tribe: Storm Lords
Auspice: Irraka
Deed Name:
Virtue: Hope
Vice: Pride
Age: 24
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 125
Description
April is slightly above average height for a woman, with strong, slightly squarish features and straight, jet black hair. Her skin is unusually tan by nature—perhaps an indication of Native ancestry, though it remains a mystery to her. Her eyes are blue and bright, the only part of her that isn’t subdued.
Her clothes are plain and unremarkable, leaning more towards Irraka tendencies than that of a Storm Lord. She wears no trophies or symbols of past conquests or failures, instead dressing in simple but practical blue jeans and a long-sleeved, close-fitting black shirt. She might vary it up a bit day-to-day, but given that these are the clothes bonded to her, fashion’s a bit limited.
April carries herself in a very calm, mellow way, preferring to listen and observe her surroundings before offering her peace. She has alert and decisive eyes, and speaks with brevity and insistence, confident but feeling no need to be wordy. It’d be easy to lose April in a crowd, but person-to-person, she can be a compelling conversationalist. She has a face that could blend in equally well with a biker gang or a dinner with debutantes.
Personality
Quiet and observant, April often comes off as aloof or reserved, though in truth she is neither. Her nature is direct and sometimes rough, but not without a sense of grace when she needs to get information out of someone. April lives for information—acquiring it, processing it, using it. She knows this is the function she was born for, and she can see no truer purpose for those blessed like her. A world of opportunity and knowledge was opened up for them, and it’d be foolish to close that off.
April knows when she’s right, and she’s not afraid to confront someone over it, affecting a confident and demanding demeanor when it comes to a dispute. She often falls into a silence to listen and weigh her options, but when a decision is made, she goes with it. Unlike many other Storm Lords, April doesn’t enjoy playing politics or making challenges. She feels they get in the way of the bigger picture, though she sees why they have become so necessary in a society of rageful individuals. April knows how to play the game, and she can be a master of backroom deals and careful persuasion, but public speaking has never been her style. She leads without fanfare or pomp—better to be right and effective than to be lauded.
Attributes
Mental
Int: 2
Wit: 3
Res: 2
Physical
Str: 2
Dex: 2
Sta: 2
Social
Pre: 2
Man: 3
Com: 3
Skills
Mental [-3 unskilled]
Academics: 1
Computer:
Crafts:
Investigation: 1
Medicine:
Occult: 1
Politics: 1
Science:
Physical [-1 unskilled]
Athletics:
Brawl: 2 (Dirty Fighting)
Drive:
Firearms:
Larceny: 2
Stealth: 2 (Crowds)
Survival: 1
Weaponry:
Social [-1 unskilled]
Animal Ken:
Empathy: 3 (Motives)
Expression:
Intimidation:
Persuasion: 3
Socialize: 1
Streetwise: 1
Subterfuge: 3 (Misdirection)
Merits
Contacts 3 (Media, Criminal, Spirits)
Resources 2
Language 1 (First Tongue)
Allies 1 (Potter w/ Media)
Equipment
Uncertain
Renown
Cunning: 2
Glory:
Honor: 1
Purity:
Wisdom:
Other Traits
Health: 7
Willpower: 5
Harmony: 7
Size: 5
Defense: 2
Initiative: 5
Speed: 9
Primal Urge: 2
Essence: 7
Gifts
Affinity Gift Lists
Auspice: New Moon, Stealth, Evasion
Tribe: Evasion, Dominance, Weather
Rank 1
- Darksight (Darkness)
Wits + Composure + Wisdom (6)
- Sense Weakness (New Moon)
Intelligence + Empathy + Wisdom (5)
- Loose Tongue (Evasion)
Manipulation + Socialize + Wisdom (4)
Rank 2
- Sand in the Eyes (Evasion)
Manipulation + Subterfuge + Honor (7)
Background[/b]
I’m no good at stories. If you’re expecting a good tale, talk to Mouth, or maybe Erik—he’s definitely got a talent for it. There are others, too, lots of them far better than me at speaking, telling a rousing yarn, all of that. This isn’t a story—it’s a history. Or maybe a conversation. Things get stored up in this head of mine, lots of things, but I don’t spill them all that much. No point to it. Why ramble when a few words will do?
But this is a ramble, so that’s what you get. I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m also not going to hold back—people think it’s bullshit, a No Moon like me talking about honesty, but I save the deceit for outside the People. Or I try to, anyway.
Nobody’s perfect. And fuck whatever Keith tells you, it’s not weakness to admit to being imperfect.
But on with the ramble.
(Growing Up)
(The First Change)
I also became aware of something else in that wandering. I was being stalked through Central Park. My pursuers weren’t of two-legs. You think you know where this is going, but you don’t—not quite. They were wolves, oh yes, but they weren’t our kind of wolves.
The Dancers seek out newly changed werewolves, too, you see. They’d been watching me for a while, just waiting, eager to see me. Maybe they were always watching me, but I doubt it. They saw a new cub, and they hungered to bring me over to their side, to do whatever twisted things it is that they do. That night they hunted me, tried to corral me—and then play with me. The Dancers love to play, in their way. Maybe they wanted to break me. I never did bother finding out.
This is the First Change, though, so it’s all kind of a blur to me, even now, even with Joe’s side of the story. I remember the hunt, both sides of it, the stalking and counter-stalking. I remember loving it, every dangerous, exhilarating moment of it. It was kill or be killed for me, and I was up for the challenge. It was thundering, remember, so this was my night, and I already had blood on my fangs. I was ready for more. So much more.
They were older. Not older-weaker, older-smarter. Better. I’d been a wolf for an hour, they’d been wolves for years, maybe decades. Granted, we were on my turf, on my night, under my moon, but they still had the advantage. That never occurred to me back then. I should’ve been afraid, it probably would’ve been smart to be afraid, but all I wanted to do was run and stalk and hunt, so that’s what I did.
They out-maneuvered me eventually, pinned be down to a little gully where there was nowhere to go. It was the end, I figured, and I made ready for the last stand. I was going down, but I was ready to fight to the last.
It wouldn’t have come to that, sure, but I thought it would. So when Joe and Sam and Jamal showed up, claws blazing, pincering the bastards, I was ready for a fight to the death. I lunged for one of them.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that. It’s a blur, remember, especially the fighting. Mouth told me later I killed one, or did near enough all the work to earn credit for it. There weren’t any bodies when I woke up, though. I was still in Central Park, still tasted the metallic flavor of blood, but I was clean. Naked, but clean. Also soaking wet and cold, what with the storm and all.
Much like my rage, the thunderstorm had passed. Fury’s crew took pretty good care of me—they left me some clothes under an overhanging rock, so they were only slightly damp, with a phone number in the pocket. They included enough change for a payphone.
It was the shortest conversation of my life in an existence filled with short conversations—like I said, I prefer to listen. They just told me that when I was ready to know what I was, I should go to the address they provided me. They made me repeat it. Then, dialtone.
I spent the day walking. There was a lot of collateral damage from my Change, not the least of which was the crime scene behind the bar. I got my personal affects back from a police officer later that day who showed up at my place the same time I did. I fed him some shit about Bobby running out with my wallet and my keys, and that seemed to satisfy him. He was only a little suspicious at first. Ultimately, there was nothing to link me to it except my stuff. They never did figure out the torn up clothes, though.
I went to the address the next day. I’ve never been all that patient about finding things out. The rest—well, the rest is a lot like everyone else. I got the lowdown, I got the choice, and I got the crash course all cubs get. Suddenly a lot of shit made sense, and things seemed… better. Calmer. Like letting out the storm helped me figure out what was going on inside me, and suddenly I could have a kind of tranquility from it. Still have to let the storm out on occasion—nature is nature after all—but there’s a balance to it now. It’s right.[/spoiler]
(April’s War of Storms)
Experience: 0 XP
Name: April Harper
Tribe: Storm Lords
Auspice: Irraka
Deed Name:
Virtue: Hope
Vice: Pride
Age: 24
Height: 5’8”
Weight: 125
Description
April is slightly above average height for a woman, with strong, slightly squarish features and straight, jet black hair. Her skin is unusually tan by nature—perhaps an indication of Native ancestry, though it remains a mystery to her. Her eyes are blue and bright, the only part of her that isn’t subdued.
Her clothes are plain and unremarkable, leaning more towards Irraka tendencies than that of a Storm Lord. She wears no trophies or symbols of past conquests or failures, instead dressing in simple but practical blue jeans and a long-sleeved, close-fitting black shirt. She might vary it up a bit day-to-day, but given that these are the clothes bonded to her, fashion’s a bit limited.
April carries herself in a very calm, mellow way, preferring to listen and observe her surroundings before offering her peace. She has alert and decisive eyes, and speaks with brevity and insistence, confident but feeling no need to be wordy. It’d be easy to lose April in a crowd, but person-to-person, she can be a compelling conversationalist. She has a face that could blend in equally well with a biker gang or a dinner with debutantes.
Personality
Quiet and observant, April often comes off as aloof or reserved, though in truth she is neither. Her nature is direct and sometimes rough, but not without a sense of grace when she needs to get information out of someone. April lives for information—acquiring it, processing it, using it. She knows this is the function she was born for, and she can see no truer purpose for those blessed like her. A world of opportunity and knowledge was opened up for them, and it’d be foolish to close that off.
April knows when she’s right, and she’s not afraid to confront someone over it, affecting a confident and demanding demeanor when it comes to a dispute. She often falls into a silence to listen and weigh her options, but when a decision is made, she goes with it. Unlike many other Storm Lords, April doesn’t enjoy playing politics or making challenges. She feels they get in the way of the bigger picture, though she sees why they have become so necessary in a society of rageful individuals. April knows how to play the game, and she can be a master of backroom deals and careful persuasion, but public speaking has never been her style. She leads without fanfare or pomp—better to be right and effective than to be lauded.
Attributes
Mental
Int: 2
Wit: 3
Res: 2
Physical
Str: 2
Dex: 2
Sta: 2
Social
Pre: 2
Man: 3
Com: 3
Skills
Mental [-3 unskilled]
Academics: 1
Computer:
Crafts:
Investigation: 1
Medicine:
Occult: 1
Politics: 1
Science:
Physical [-1 unskilled]
Athletics:
Brawl: 2 (Dirty Fighting)
Drive:
Firearms:
Larceny: 2
Stealth: 2 (Crowds)
Survival: 1
Weaponry:
Social [-1 unskilled]
Animal Ken:
Empathy: 3 (Motives)
Expression:
Intimidation:
Persuasion: 3
Socialize: 1
Streetwise: 1
Subterfuge: 3 (Misdirection)
Merits
Contacts 3 (Media, Criminal, Spirits)
Resources 2
Language 1 (First Tongue)
Allies 1 (Potter w/ Media)
Equipment
Uncertain
Renown
Cunning: 2
Glory:
Honor: 1
Purity:
Wisdom:
Other Traits
Health: 7
Willpower: 5
Harmony: 7
Size: 5
Defense: 2
Initiative: 5
Speed: 9
Primal Urge: 2
Essence: 7
Gifts
Affinity Gift Lists
Auspice: New Moon, Stealth, Evasion
Tribe: Evasion, Dominance, Weather
Rank 1
- Darksight (Darkness)
Wits + Composure + Wisdom (6)
- Sense Weakness (New Moon)
Intelligence + Empathy + Wisdom (5)
- Loose Tongue (Evasion)
Manipulation + Socialize + Wisdom (4)
Rank 2
- Sand in the Eyes (Evasion)
Manipulation + Subterfuge + Honor (7)
Background[/b]
I’m no good at stories. If you’re expecting a good tale, talk to Mouth, or maybe Erik—he’s definitely got a talent for it. There are others, too, lots of them far better than me at speaking, telling a rousing yarn, all of that. This isn’t a story—it’s a history. Or maybe a conversation. Things get stored up in this head of mine, lots of things, but I don’t spill them all that much. No point to it. Why ramble when a few words will do?
But this is a ramble, so that’s what you get. I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m also not going to hold back—people think it’s bullshit, a No Moon like me talking about honesty, but I save the deceit for outside the People. Or I try to, anyway.
Nobody’s perfect. And fuck whatever Keith tells you, it’s not weakness to admit to being imperfect.
But on with the ramble.
(Growing Up)
I never knew my parents—well, my mom kind of, but that’s a long story. I was given up. Not ‘given up for adoption’, just given up. She didn’t want me. That fucked me up for a long time, but I get it now. I don’t even blame her for it. All things considered, it was the thing to do.
I was maybe six months old when she dropped me on someone’s doorstep. They called me April, ‘cause that was the month they found me in, and it stuck, even though they didn’t keep me. I got sent off to the state pretty fast, and was instantly launched into a foster home, seeing as I was still an infant and all. It should’ve worked out. Babies are in high demand for adoptions, so they typically go fast, especially when you figure this particular baby doesn’t have a suspicious birth mother hanging around to screen every applicant.
Should’ve worked out, but in what became something of a pattern, it didn’t. I guess I wasn’t what you’d call a model infant. I dug up the foster lady a while back—nice lady, seemed sincere when she told me she wanted to keep me but couldn’t. She was honest about the problems, though—the mischief, the wailing in the middle of the night, the fussiness. I was a pain in the ass. Still am, if you ask most people. Apparently, according to my foster mom, I pulled out my absolute worst behavior for potential parents, like I was trying to fight them off.
Could be. The instincts have always run high with this one.
Anyway, when I got to be old enough to think and act for myself, old Mrs. Harper had to give me up. Somehow I wound up with her surname, I guess because they didn’t have another one for me. My behavior didn’t improve—though there was no more wailing—and despite floating through a few foster families, I pretty much stayed an orphan throughout the rest of me childhood, attending state schools, carving out my niche in the state orphanage, all that good stuff. It sucked at the time, but looking back on it, I’m not upset about it. Life was hard, but life still is hard, and I like to think I got a leg up on things by having a rocky start. I got wise to a lot of things early on—lies, ambition, power, people. I was a quiet kid; a troublemaker, no doubt, but a hell of a listener. Don’t let the caustic narrative fool you—I’m much happier listening over talking.
I’d dream sometimes, back then—about mom, usually, but also about other things. Weird things. I always liked dogs, which probably should’ve been a sign, and something about the wilderness made my heart beat faster, and I never could say why. I never got out of the city much to enjoy them, but sometimes take us to Central Park and I’d just run and run and run until I got lost or they caught up with me and punished me for it.
Mostly, though, I had to settle for the sky. April turned out to be an okay name for me, because April was when the storms rolled through. Trees and fields and forests might be distant, but the sky was always there, and the storms rolled right through. I’ve always loved them—the raw power, the feral tenacity, the fucking noise! Weird, maybe, but aren’t we all? There’s always something. For me, it was lightning and thunder and wind. I’d sneak outside when I could—on the roof was best, where I could let the rain wash over me and the thunder shake me. For some reason, I never caught a cold that way, though I’d always be shivering when I finally wandered back inside.
Those were usually the times I dreamed of her. I never met mom, but I kind of remember her. When I tell most people that, they either think I’m crazy or they think it’s some kind of cute, sweet moment, an infant remember her first caress. Sometimes I let them think that, but it wasn’t like that at all. Mom was wild. It was in her eyes, in her movements, even in the way she held me. It’s all just fragments and pieces, but it’s always the same. She was strong, she was rough, and she couldn’t be what she needed to be when she had me to tote around. Hence the leaving.
But like I said, I don’t blame her for it.
I do kind of blame dad, though. Where the hell was he? But there could be extenuating circumstances. I’ve never met the man, after all. He could’ve died, or maybe he was just a random hookup of mom’s. It’d fit the lifestyle.
But I digress.
I kept up with a few people from the orphanage after we all graduated out of there. Potter was my best pal. His actual name was Martin, but we all called him ‘Potter’ on account of his hair, the glasses, and a scar on his forehead that, while not a lightning bolt, was still significant. I think I might’ve even given it to him, but none of us can really remember.
Potter was a good kid—much better than me. Unfortunately for him, he hung around me for reasons beyond either of our comprehension, and that spelled trouble for him. He was guilty by association. He tells me he doesn’t regret it, but I’m not sure I believe him. Still, he made something of himself, went to college and everything—journalism, of all things. I kept up with him, but after getting free of the orphanage, I had other things to do—running around, sniffing out problems, getting immersed in the wrong subcultures. Everything I was forbidden to do for 18 years I had to go explore, and it led me into no shortage of scrapes, some of which I only narrowly survived in my youthful foolishness. But I did survive them. That’s what we do, isn’t it?
I was maybe six months old when she dropped me on someone’s doorstep. They called me April, ‘cause that was the month they found me in, and it stuck, even though they didn’t keep me. I got sent off to the state pretty fast, and was instantly launched into a foster home, seeing as I was still an infant and all. It should’ve worked out. Babies are in high demand for adoptions, so they typically go fast, especially when you figure this particular baby doesn’t have a suspicious birth mother hanging around to screen every applicant.
Should’ve worked out, but in what became something of a pattern, it didn’t. I guess I wasn’t what you’d call a model infant. I dug up the foster lady a while back—nice lady, seemed sincere when she told me she wanted to keep me but couldn’t. She was honest about the problems, though—the mischief, the wailing in the middle of the night, the fussiness. I was a pain in the ass. Still am, if you ask most people. Apparently, according to my foster mom, I pulled out my absolute worst behavior for potential parents, like I was trying to fight them off.
Could be. The instincts have always run high with this one.
Anyway, when I got to be old enough to think and act for myself, old Mrs. Harper had to give me up. Somehow I wound up with her surname, I guess because they didn’t have another one for me. My behavior didn’t improve—though there was no more wailing—and despite floating through a few foster families, I pretty much stayed an orphan throughout the rest of me childhood, attending state schools, carving out my niche in the state orphanage, all that good stuff. It sucked at the time, but looking back on it, I’m not upset about it. Life was hard, but life still is hard, and I like to think I got a leg up on things by having a rocky start. I got wise to a lot of things early on—lies, ambition, power, people. I was a quiet kid; a troublemaker, no doubt, but a hell of a listener. Don’t let the caustic narrative fool you—I’m much happier listening over talking.
I’d dream sometimes, back then—about mom, usually, but also about other things. Weird things. I always liked dogs, which probably should’ve been a sign, and something about the wilderness made my heart beat faster, and I never could say why. I never got out of the city much to enjoy them, but sometimes take us to Central Park and I’d just run and run and run until I got lost or they caught up with me and punished me for it.
Mostly, though, I had to settle for the sky. April turned out to be an okay name for me, because April was when the storms rolled through. Trees and fields and forests might be distant, but the sky was always there, and the storms rolled right through. I’ve always loved them—the raw power, the feral tenacity, the fucking noise! Weird, maybe, but aren’t we all? There’s always something. For me, it was lightning and thunder and wind. I’d sneak outside when I could—on the roof was best, where I could let the rain wash over me and the thunder shake me. For some reason, I never caught a cold that way, though I’d always be shivering when I finally wandered back inside.
Those were usually the times I dreamed of her. I never met mom, but I kind of remember her. When I tell most people that, they either think I’m crazy or they think it’s some kind of cute, sweet moment, an infant remember her first caress. Sometimes I let them think that, but it wasn’t like that at all. Mom was wild. It was in her eyes, in her movements, even in the way she held me. It’s all just fragments and pieces, but it’s always the same. She was strong, she was rough, and she couldn’t be what she needed to be when she had me to tote around. Hence the leaving.
But like I said, I don’t blame her for it.
I do kind of blame dad, though. Where the hell was he? But there could be extenuating circumstances. I’ve never met the man, after all. He could’ve died, or maybe he was just a random hookup of mom’s. It’d fit the lifestyle.
But I digress.
I kept up with a few people from the orphanage after we all graduated out of there. Potter was my best pal. His actual name was Martin, but we all called him ‘Potter’ on account of his hair, the glasses, and a scar on his forehead that, while not a lightning bolt, was still significant. I think I might’ve even given it to him, but none of us can really remember.
Potter was a good kid—much better than me. Unfortunately for him, he hung around me for reasons beyond either of our comprehension, and that spelled trouble for him. He was guilty by association. He tells me he doesn’t regret it, but I’m not sure I believe him. Still, he made something of himself, went to college and everything—journalism, of all things. I kept up with him, but after getting free of the orphanage, I had other things to do—running around, sniffing out problems, getting immersed in the wrong subcultures. Everything I was forbidden to do for 18 years I had to go explore, and it led me into no shortage of scrapes, some of which I only narrowly survived in my youthful foolishness. But I did survive them. That’s what we do, isn’t it?
(The First Change)
Things started to get weird around 23. I’d tried drugs, but had long given them up by then, so all the lost time, waking dreams, and such were entirely out of place. I thought I might be going crazy, especially when I started seeing people following me places—or big dogs. Now, like I said, me and dogs always hit it off, but this wasn’t some average dog. I’m sure you can guess what was happening, so I’ll just skip ahead.
The beast was building in me. I didn’t realize that’s what it is, but in hindsight it’s obvious. I always had a temper—one I typically hid, but it was there nonetheless. I was having a harder time controlling it, though, and often found myself pacing anxiously, eager to get moving. I have no idea where. I was ready to Change. It all came to a head in, of course, the month of April. One of my storms was rolling through, and I had just had an argument with one of the boys I ran with in those days—gangs fascinated me, but I always found them too petty to really commit to. I’d said something particularly scathing in front of his buddies, and he didn’t want to let it go, so he followed me out of the bar. A mistake in general, but a more grievous mistake than the poor guy could’ve possibly known.
I flipped out on him. I Changed on him. I found out about his death later—thankfully impossible to pin on me—because at that time I was completely preoccupied with—what else?—running. Not fleeing
[/u], before you get all smirky. Just going places, exploring, finding out everything that was out there—the scents, the sights, the quiet sounds hidden behind the city’s background noises. I wanted it all, so much just barely beyond my perception, and suddenly it was all there.The beast was building in me. I didn’t realize that’s what it is, but in hindsight it’s obvious. I always had a temper—one I typically hid, but it was there nonetheless. I was having a harder time controlling it, though, and often found myself pacing anxiously, eager to get moving. I have no idea where. I was ready to Change. It all came to a head in, of course, the month of April. One of my storms was rolling through, and I had just had an argument with one of the boys I ran with in those days—gangs fascinated me, but I always found them too petty to really commit to. I’d said something particularly scathing in front of his buddies, and he didn’t want to let it go, so he followed me out of the bar. A mistake in general, but a more grievous mistake than the poor guy could’ve possibly known.
I flipped out on him. I Changed on him. I found out about his death later—thankfully impossible to pin on me—because at that time I was completely preoccupied with—what else?—running. Not fleeing
I also became aware of something else in that wandering. I was being stalked through Central Park. My pursuers weren’t of two-legs. You think you know where this is going, but you don’t—not quite. They were wolves, oh yes, but they weren’t our kind of wolves.
The Dancers seek out newly changed werewolves, too, you see. They’d been watching me for a while, just waiting, eager to see me. Maybe they were always watching me, but I doubt it. They saw a new cub, and they hungered to bring me over to their side, to do whatever twisted things it is that they do. That night they hunted me, tried to corral me—and then play with me. The Dancers love to play, in their way. Maybe they wanted to break me. I never did bother finding out.
This is the First Change, though, so it’s all kind of a blur to me, even now, even with Joe’s side of the story. I remember the hunt, both sides of it, the stalking and counter-stalking. I remember loving it, every dangerous, exhilarating moment of it. It was kill or be killed for me, and I was up for the challenge. It was thundering, remember, so this was my night, and I already had blood on my fangs. I was ready for more. So much more.
They were older. Not older-weaker, older-smarter. Better. I’d been a wolf for an hour, they’d been wolves for years, maybe decades. Granted, we were on my turf, on my night, under my moon, but they still had the advantage. That never occurred to me back then. I should’ve been afraid, it probably would’ve been smart to be afraid, but all I wanted to do was run and stalk and hunt, so that’s what I did.
They out-maneuvered me eventually, pinned be down to a little gully where there was nowhere to go. It was the end, I figured, and I made ready for the last stand. I was going down, but I was ready to fight to the last.
It wouldn’t have come to that, sure, but I thought it would. So when Joe and Sam and Jamal showed up, claws blazing, pincering the bastards, I was ready for a fight to the death. I lunged for one of them.
I don’t remember much of what happened after that. It’s a blur, remember, especially the fighting. Mouth told me later I killed one, or did near enough all the work to earn credit for it. There weren’t any bodies when I woke up, though. I was still in Central Park, still tasted the metallic flavor of blood, but I was clean. Naked, but clean. Also soaking wet and cold, what with the storm and all.
Much like my rage, the thunderstorm had passed. Fury’s crew took pretty good care of me—they left me some clothes under an overhanging rock, so they were only slightly damp, with a phone number in the pocket. They included enough change for a payphone.
It was the shortest conversation of my life in an existence filled with short conversations—like I said, I prefer to listen. They just told me that when I was ready to know what I was, I should go to the address they provided me. They made me repeat it. Then, dialtone.
I spent the day walking. There was a lot of collateral damage from my Change, not the least of which was the crime scene behind the bar. I got my personal affects back from a police officer later that day who showed up at my place the same time I did. I fed him some shit about Bobby running out with my wallet and my keys, and that seemed to satisfy him. He was only a little suspicious at first. Ultimately, there was nothing to link me to it except my stuff. They never did figure out the torn up clothes, though.
I went to the address the next day. I’ve never been all that patient about finding things out. The rest—well, the rest is a lot like everyone else. I got the lowdown, I got the choice, and I got the crash course all cubs get. Suddenly a lot of shit made sense, and things seemed… better. Calmer. Like letting out the storm helped me figure out what was going on inside me, and suddenly I could have a kind of tranquility from it. Still have to let the storm out on occasion—nature is nature after all—but there’s a balance to it now. It’s right.[/spoiler]
(April’s War of Storms)
It’s hard, too, being a werewolf. I suppose that goes without saying. Saying my life changed after I Changed seems like an understatement. The fucking world changed, and I had to change to keep up with it. There’s so much to explore, so much to learn, so much that even the wisest of the People don’t know. And yet so many of them are content to sit on their laurels, rule over their little kingdoms, and focus on one little thing in the vastness of reality… it kills me.
In the orphanage, I was confined. Even when I was an adult, free to roam the wide world—which I did—and try everything humanity had to offer, I was still confined. All of mankind is. But now… now I’m Uratha, now I Know; no, now I can Know.
Marcus never got that. Neither did Keith or even Roslyn—and I so hoped she would. It would’ve been lunacy for me to run with Fury’s pack, even though they liberated me. Cubs have to start from the ground up. He taught me the ropes anyway, or rather he inspired me. Joe’s always had more rage than I have, more of that feral core, and that power is intoxicating in its way. But while he inspired me, it was really Samantha and Jamal that I learned from—and old Puddle-Jumper to some extent. Mouth taught me the ways—how to walk and talk and breathe Uratha. From Samantha I learned the laws, the equity and justice of the People. Puddle-Jumper just talked, and I listened, and in listening learned. He promised he’d teach me rites one day, too. I’m going to hold him to that.
But back to Marcus. Like I said, I couldn’t run with Fury, but I was a Storm Lord—a point of pride, even if my methods seemed strange, my bearing unusual for one of my kind. Even Fury never fully understood why Winter Wolf accepted me, but I’ve seen the way Ivan eyes me—he gets it. A New Moon under Winter Wolf is unusual, but not unheard of. Different, certainly, and not something a Rahu is liable to figure out right away. But MoonSoul does. He’d sort of have to, though, wouldn’t he?
Too bad Marcus isn’t like his mentor, or at least like Joe. Even Half-Moons get mixed up, and they forget that. I won’t dispute that he’s a born leader—I mean, look at him. He’s got the look, he’s got the voice, he’s got the air of judgment all down pat. And I hate to speak poorly of a tribemate, but he doesn’t… get it. He heard Winter Wolf’s words, like all of us, but he’s missing the point.
I’m not going to dig into it too much, suffice to say that he and I, we never got along. He was in charge and I played by his rules, but I never liked it, and I may be quiet, but I’ll speak up when someone’s making a mistake. Marcus thinks mistakes are weakness—a fallacy—so naturally he sees it as a kind of betrayal.
Sometimes I wonder if the problem was that I’m a New Moon. In a pack of five, I was the second Irraka, the little kink to his perfect Silver Pack. Marcus always wanted that pretty badly—he didn’t talk about it much, but I pick up on things. He accepted me, but there was a reluctance there, and I think he always hoped I wouldn’t work out. And I didn’t. Still not sure whose fault that is—probably both of us. I’m not ambitious or power hungry or anything—people think all of us Storm Lords are, but they’ve got it all wrong. I just don’t like see things done poorly. Marcus’s way… It’s not bad, but he’s not willing to take critique, and that bugs me.
I think Seth and I bothered him, too. Stalkers get along, you know? Hood’s got a very different outlook than me, but we made it work; we learned from each other. He taught me some very interesting things about introspection and self-analysis, things I think Marcus could make use of if he bothered to open his eyes to anything but his agenda. Maybe he will some day. Anyhow, how’s an alpha expected to react when two members of his pack start getting along and heeding each other more than they heed him?
We quarreled. He thought he’d teach me a lesson by having me try to lead for a change—I’ve heard of that ploy from other Storm Lords. Maybe he thought it’d teach me humility, but that’s a lesson I already knew. So I did it. I took the reins and I steered the pack, and you know what? It worked. It didn’t work all that well, especially what with Keith balking at my plans and methods and Roslyn twitching at my quiet methods. It wasn’t the song or the battle I was working for, though, it was the efficiency. A quicker, better, more harmonious way of getting things done. The old tactics aren’t going to work forever, I told them. We have to keep up, change with the times. Our ways need to bend so they don’t break!
Keith told me I should’ve run with Red Wolf. Roslyn said I sounded like Mouth, which is probably true. Marcus just glared and let them do his work for him. Seth kept quiet, but I knew he understood—but he was in his place, and he liked his place, and that’s his call. His pack.
But not mine.
Marcus managed to keep the satisfied smirk off his face when I told him I’d find another pack. Probably he thinks I can’t work with anyone. I think maybe he’s right. The Sept is set in its pattern, and I don’t fit into that yet. Maybe the question isn’t ‘who do I join?’ but ‘who do I lead?’
MoonSoul just nodded when he found out. I know the old man knows something I don’t. He always does.
In the orphanage, I was confined. Even when I was an adult, free to roam the wide world—which I did—and try everything humanity had to offer, I was still confined. All of mankind is. But now… now I’m Uratha, now I Know; no, now I can Know.
Marcus never got that. Neither did Keith or even Roslyn—and I so hoped she would. It would’ve been lunacy for me to run with Fury’s pack, even though they liberated me. Cubs have to start from the ground up. He taught me the ropes anyway, or rather he inspired me. Joe’s always had more rage than I have, more of that feral core, and that power is intoxicating in its way. But while he inspired me, it was really Samantha and Jamal that I learned from—and old Puddle-Jumper to some extent. Mouth taught me the ways—how to walk and talk and breathe Uratha. From Samantha I learned the laws, the equity and justice of the People. Puddle-Jumper just talked, and I listened, and in listening learned. He promised he’d teach me rites one day, too. I’m going to hold him to that.
But back to Marcus. Like I said, I couldn’t run with Fury, but I was a Storm Lord—a point of pride, even if my methods seemed strange, my bearing unusual for one of my kind. Even Fury never fully understood why Winter Wolf accepted me, but I’ve seen the way Ivan eyes me—he gets it. A New Moon under Winter Wolf is unusual, but not unheard of. Different, certainly, and not something a Rahu is liable to figure out right away. But MoonSoul does. He’d sort of have to, though, wouldn’t he?
Too bad Marcus isn’t like his mentor, or at least like Joe. Even Half-Moons get mixed up, and they forget that. I won’t dispute that he’s a born leader—I mean, look at him. He’s got the look, he’s got the voice, he’s got the air of judgment all down pat. And I hate to speak poorly of a tribemate, but he doesn’t… get it. He heard Winter Wolf’s words, like all of us, but he’s missing the point.
I’m not going to dig into it too much, suffice to say that he and I, we never got along. He was in charge and I played by his rules, but I never liked it, and I may be quiet, but I’ll speak up when someone’s making a mistake. Marcus thinks mistakes are weakness—a fallacy—so naturally he sees it as a kind of betrayal.
Sometimes I wonder if the problem was that I’m a New Moon. In a pack of five, I was the second Irraka, the little kink to his perfect Silver Pack. Marcus always wanted that pretty badly—he didn’t talk about it much, but I pick up on things. He accepted me, but there was a reluctance there, and I think he always hoped I wouldn’t work out. And I didn’t. Still not sure whose fault that is—probably both of us. I’m not ambitious or power hungry or anything—people think all of us Storm Lords are, but they’ve got it all wrong. I just don’t like see things done poorly. Marcus’s way… It’s not bad, but he’s not willing to take critique, and that bugs me.
I think Seth and I bothered him, too. Stalkers get along, you know? Hood’s got a very different outlook than me, but we made it work; we learned from each other. He taught me some very interesting things about introspection and self-analysis, things I think Marcus could make use of if he bothered to open his eyes to anything but his agenda. Maybe he will some day. Anyhow, how’s an alpha expected to react when two members of his pack start getting along and heeding each other more than they heed him?
We quarreled. He thought he’d teach me a lesson by having me try to lead for a change—I’ve heard of that ploy from other Storm Lords. Maybe he thought it’d teach me humility, but that’s a lesson I already knew. So I did it. I took the reins and I steered the pack, and you know what? It worked. It didn’t work all that well, especially what with Keith balking at my plans and methods and Roslyn twitching at my quiet methods. It wasn’t the song or the battle I was working for, though, it was the efficiency. A quicker, better, more harmonious way of getting things done. The old tactics aren’t going to work forever, I told them. We have to keep up, change with the times. Our ways need to bend so they don’t break!
Keith told me I should’ve run with Red Wolf. Roslyn said I sounded like Mouth, which is probably true. Marcus just glared and let them do his work for him. Seth kept quiet, but I knew he understood—but he was in his place, and he liked his place, and that’s his call. His pack.
But not mine.
Marcus managed to keep the satisfied smirk off his face when I told him I’d find another pack. Probably he thinks I can’t work with anyone. I think maybe he’s right. The Sept is set in its pattern, and I don’t fit into that yet. Maybe the question isn’t ‘who do I join?’ but ‘who do I lead?’
MoonSoul just nodded when he found out. I know the old man knows something I don’t. He always does.
Experience: 0 XP
Which also means I can't update most/any of my games.